


A Valve for Aggression

by cuumbertomybatch



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Affectionate Sherlock, Bisexual John Watson, Case Fic, Confusion, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Fighting Kink, Friends to Lovers, Hurt, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Mutual Pining, POV John Watson, Pre-Reichenbach, Sexual Tension, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Being Idiots, Threats of Violence, Violence, Virgin Sherlock, possibly, set sometime after THoB, throws and pins
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-12
Updated: 2016-06-13
Packaged: 2018-05-20 00:34:06
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 13
Words: 21,216
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5986351
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cuumbertomybatch/pseuds/cuumbertomybatch
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everyone has his own strategy of letting off steam. And Sherlock Holmes has a lot to get rid of - so it's not surprising that one night the wall he's built around himself starts to leak. But unlike John might have expected, Sherlock chooses a rather unconventional valve for his aggression. And John happily gets carried along ...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

“What the bloody …“

John’s toe hit the obstacle on the floor as he entered the flat. It sounded metal, and felt just like that. That toe’s going to be quite swollen later on, he thought.  
The day at work had been exhausting, and coming home to an empty flat – and an empty fridge – really wasn’t what John had been looking forward to. He decided to have a quick trip to Tesco’s, even though they would order in anyway. On his way he was bumped into three times, and one time at Tesco’s while carrying some yoghurt. The remains of said yoghurt were spread across his chest, his shirt still dripping a bit. As if that hadn’t been enough, the bag he used to carry the groceries home was teared open by the sharp edge of a milk carton, causing all its contents to fall to the pavement. At least John didn’t get any eggs. He was just about to accept that some days are just doomed to be shitty when he entered the flat.

Sherlock was spread over the sofa when John limbed into the living room. His eyes were closed, hands folded under his chin – the standard mind palace pose. John couldn’t have cared less. He was sure that Sherlock sensed his arrival anyway.

“Sherlock, why the bloody hell did you put the microwave EXACTLY behind the door?! Why, for heaven’s sake, couldn’t you just leave it at its place? IN THE KITCHEN?” John’s voice grew louder while talking, and he hadn’t reached his top yet.

“Why did you not watch out when you entered?” Sherlock answered calmly. He didn’t even bother opening his eyes.

“What kind of explanation is that?! That’s no explanation at all!”

Usually, John wouldn’t discuss. Usually, he would just accept that apparently there must be some reason for Sherlock moving parts of the flat’s inventory, then head to the kitchen to put the kettle on and get himself some tea. Usually. Not this time.

“Really, Sherlock? So you leave the flat, come back to find me being absent even though it was past my normal returning time, and you’ve got no better idea than putting that damn microwave in the doorway? Just to be absolutely sure I’d trip over it? Now, you master of deduction, look at me: Do I look delighted? Or amused? Let me tell you something: I do NOT.” John’s fists were balled, trembling. Sherlock had opened his eyes at some point, but didn’t look at him. John turned to the kitchen. Maybe he should get himself some tea. Or something to eat. Maybe he should smash Sherlock’s head with the microwave. He reached for the kettle.

“Two sugars, please.”

John felt the rage rising from his chest to his face, turning red. He started to walk back to the living room determinedly. He was definitely going to smash Sherlock’s head. When he turned round the corner, he almost bumped into Sherlock.

“What the…” John started, but didn’t finish his sentence. Sherlock just kept standing there, right in front of him. He was still wearing the suit he had probably been wearing all day, the purple shirt underneath the jacket. It looked darker than it usually did, from a distance. Now Sherlock was merely inches away. His breath was steady as he stood there, looking directly into John’s eyes. Hell, did he even blink?

John suddenly realised that his mouth had fallen open. He closed it, then licked his lips quickly. Why was he always doing this every time Sherlock tried to stare him down? Must be some subconscious reflex.

Moments passed and neither of them turned away. Neither of them even shifted his feet. Sherlock just stood there, towering over John. John’s mouth fell open again. Then Sherlock broke the silence.

“I think the kettle’s ready.”

John blinked, shaking his head slightly, as if trying to wake up. He turned towards the kitchen again, unplugged the kettle and poured the boiled water into a teapot. He felt strange, somehow. The look on Sherlock’s face was nothing he had seen ever before, a mix of aggression, anger, and – and what, exactly? The first term coming to John’s mind was ‘anticipation’.

When he poured the first cup, he realised he had forgotten to add tea bags.


	2. Chapter 2

A week passed and John stopped thinking about the incident.

He had thought about it after going to bed on that night, though. Sherlock’s eyes, dark suddenly. His pupils dilated. Strange. Very, very strange. But then, on the other hand, when had Sherlock ever not been strange?

John had left it like that, and the upcoming week had offered enough distraction for him to forget about it. Almost, at least. The first spring weekend had brought warm temperatures to London, and as people tended to enjoy the sun a bit too lightly dressed the clinic and thus John’s timetable had been very busy the next days. Apart from that, he had barely seen Sherlock anyway. Every evening when John had come home from work the flat was abandoned, no sign of where to Sherlock had rushed off left. In the mornings, when John had been leaving for work, Sherlock had been either asleep or sitting on the sofa, his eyes fixed on his notebook’s screen and totally ignorant of John’s presence. And John had known better than to disturb him. 

This day didn’t seem to be any different from the days before. John sighed a bit when he unlocked the door to 221b, being exhausted from the day’s work and desperate for a shower. He went straight to the bathroom, closed the door and started to undress. A moment later he was standing in the shower, hot water flowing down his back as he leaning forward, his forehead slightly touching the tiles. He took a deep breath, the tenseness of the last few days slowly leaving his body and flushing down the drain. Another sigh left his mouth as the first bit of the weekend’s relaxation started to settle in. Then he heard the front door being slammed shut. 

John stepped into the hall, dressed in his bathrobe. Sherlock’s coat hung to the railing, the blue scarf thrown over it. That was unusual – Sherlock was usually quite sensitive when it came to his coat. John didn’t even want to know how expensive it had been.

When he entered the living room, Sherlock was pacing from one side to the other, either with his index fingers stuck to his temples or his arms crossed on his chest. He was mumbling something, but John couldn’t follow. He hadn’t seen Sherlock like this in weeks. Last time Sherlock had been struggling to find the cause of death in a triple murder, the corpses being unharmed to the eye and the morgue unable to find anything significant either. It was probably something similar this time, too. 

Sherlock didn’t seem to have realised John entering and kept on mumbling. When John found it too hard to watch, he decided to interfere. 

“So, what’s it this time?” He said, trying to sound casual about the fact that death people would probably be involved in the answer. There’s things you never get used to. Except when you’re Sherlock, that is.

Hearing John’s question, Sherlock stopped. For a moment he just stood there and stared at the floor. It wouldn’t have appeared too weird, Sherlock having acted like this on several occasions before. John was just about to utter another question when Sherlock suddenly turned. There it was again, that look on his face. His eyes dark. 

John subconsciously held his breath. His eyes were very open suddenly, any feeling of weariness gone within an instant. He just stood there by the door to the living room, dressed in nothing but a bathrobe and completely unable to move, his eyes locked with Sherlock’s. Then Sherlock took a step towards him. Then another step. Not breaking eye contact, not even for a second. John just began to think Sherlock would just keep standing in the middle of the room when he suddenly eliminated the remaining distance between them. It happened so fast John was unable to react. And even if he had been, he had no idea what he would have done. He didn’t even have an idea what was happening anyway. And Sherlock standing so close their bodies touched wasn’t really helpful. The next second Sherlock’s hands were on John’s cheeks and he pinned him to the wall behind him, being stuck to the other man’s body with all of himself and leaning into him, so much John felt he would be unable to move even if he tried. Which he didn’t. Why didn’t he try to move, get away from this? Why was he busy with keeping eye contact instead? And what the hell was Sherlock even doing? 

Sherlock’s hand wandered to John’s shoulders, grabbed them and lifted him slightly from the wall, only to push him back immediately. Another sigh left John’s mouth – or was it more of a moan? John’s mind was racing. He couldn’t recall touching his flatmate in the two years they lived together, apart from their shaking hands on their first and second meetings. Maybe one time or another when handing him his phone, or a cup of tea, but never for a period longer than necessary. Actually, the only persons Sherlock ever seemed to touch voluntarily were either Mrs Hudson or dead ones. John always took it that Sherlock just didn’t fancy physical contact. 

None of these thoughts crossed his mind in that moment however. Sherlock seized his shoulders again, pushing him into the wall more violently this time. Then he leaned back into John’s body, breathing heavily. John felt a heart racing, unable to tell whose it was. Sherlock’s hands found John’s face again, their noses touching. John was completely sure Sherlock was going to kiss him. That he would kiss him more and more deeply, before opening his bathrobe and … Sherlock suddenly pulled away. His gaze was fixed on a spot somewhere behind John in the hall, and for a moment John thought someone had entered the flat without them realising. Then Sherlock rushed past him, grabbing his coat and scarf on his way towards the main door and slamming the door behind him, even more violently than he had when he entered the flat only about half an hour ago. 

John was left in the living room, confused, with his wet hair sticking out in all directions and the hint of a boner between his legs.


	3. Chapter 3

John lay awake that night, unable to stop his brain from thinking. His mind was searching for the most likely explanation for what happened about two hours ago. The problem was, that the most likely explanation usually was wrong when it came to Sherlock. 

John had been standing at the spot Sherlock left him for another ten minutes after his flatmate had rushed off, thinking he might turn and come back, and explain. But he hadn’t. In fact he didn’t come back at all, at least not until now. It wasn’t too late, merely half past ten. Sherlock being out until dawn wasn’t unusual. Sherlock slamming doors wasn’t unusual either. Neither was Sherlock walking through the flat aggressively. But Sherlock pushing John into a wall and … pinning him against it with all his body – yeah, definitely unusual. 

John rolled to his side. 11pm. He sighed, then decided to get up and get himself another cup of tea. When he entered the kitchen, Sherlock’s microscope and some samples were still spread across the table. Of course there was no note which could have given John a hint about what exactly this experiment was about, but right now he didn’t really care anyway. 

After pouring the boiling water into a cup – this time with a tea bag in it – John sat down in his armchair in the living room. It would have been the perfect spot to watch the happenings between him and Sherlock that night. John leaned back, his eyes fixed on the wall next to the door leading to the hall. It looked like nothing ever happened. Of course it did. It’s a bloody wall. 

John looked down his arms, uncovered by the shirt he was wearing. There were not black spots or similar. Nothing red or swollen. His neck felt a bit stiff, but it usually did. So no signs hinting at his encounter with the wall – and Sherlock – on his body either. 

He just kept sitting there, feeling tired while unable to sleep, staring into nothing. He recalled the scene over and over again, trying to see it from a different perspective instead of his own, actually quite heated one. His cup had already gone cold. Why did Sherlock touch him like this? Why did he keep his body to John’s? And why did he slam him into that wall in the first place? Actually, there was no explanation that could have fitted all those actions and the fact that it’s Sherlock all at the same time. He was starting to think that tonight must have been a dream, a hallucination, though he felt unable to accept how his mind could have made it up, why he would think something like that and why – and that was most important – he had found it a little arousing, when the front door opened. 

He heard the familiar, swift steps rustling over the floor in the hall. A coat being slit off shoulders, the scarf untied and put aside. John inhaled deeply. The light in the living room was on. Sherlock must be aware that John was still up. If he wouldn’t face John by himself, John would force him to. He would step into Sherlock’s room and simply force him. And hope that Sherlock would do the talking, because John felt completely unable to speak himself. 

Sherlock went into the kitchen first. John heard how he stopped by the table, pushing all the samples into a box with in one move. Then he heard the box being thrown to the garbage. Sherlock entered the living room and, without hesitating even for a second, went to his desk to grab his violin.

He must have seen John sitting there. He must have realised things weren’t as usual when John didn’t bother greeting him. When he didn’t start talking to him now, either. Even Sherlock, completely ignorant to people’s emotions when not being important for a case, must have realised. Which meant he ignored it on purpose. 

John tried to weigh up which option he would sleep better with, just leaving silently and being angry about Sherlock, or trying to get him into talking, only to fail and then be angry because of that. He’d probably do better with the latter. 

“So, another case then?” 

Sherlock didn’t turn around. He stood there, with his back to John, violin in his hand but not put to his shoulder yet, but John was able to see Sherlock’s shoulders tense. The next moment, Sherlock put the violin back, turned around and sat down in his armchair. His elbows were on the armrests, but instead of his fingers folded in front of his mouth, his face was semi-buried in one of his hands instead. He rubbed his eyes. 

“Murder. An old woman. Killed by a blow to the head with a blunt object that was nowhere to be found. Nothing particularly interesting, happens every five minutes. The speciality, which made this case a seven at least, was that she was sitting in her rocking chair. In fact, she had been sitting there for the last 7 years. Not getting up ever. Her skin – and everything else her body, uhm, discharged – had merged with the fabric the chair’s cushions were made of. She literally grew together with her chair. She was found by her nephew when he came to bring her groceries. Of course groceries which need neither cooling nor cooking or similar and thus could be placed right beside her on a table. A neighbour living on the same floor said he was the only one ever visiting, and that he always showed up every three days. To be honest, it seemed quite obvious. He must have done it. But of course he had an alibi – his wife went into labour early, only after he left his aunt’s three days before finding her. The kid was born prematurely, so he and his wife stood in the hospital all the time. He said he only left because he had to look after his aunt. She had been dead for at least 24 hours before he found her. The staff at the hospital and several security cameras confirmed his alibi. Apart from that, he wouldn’t have had any reason to kill her – no one was forcing him to visit her, she didn’t have any money or anything else he could have possibly wanted, and apparently she must have been a nice person despite being melted into a piece of furniture.” 

He stopped there. John waited, but Sherlock didn’t go on. Of course. He wanted John to ask him to. He always did, as if he needed a confirmation that John was not only still able to follow but also still curious, even though John being not curious about a case was something that simply didn’t happen. 

“But if the nephew was the only one who ever visited and if she really didn’t have anything to come after – who killed her and why?” 

That was when Sherlock put his fingertips together in front of his mouth again. Yeah, you’re such a smart ass. Do you have a similarly clever answer to what on earth happened between the two of us?, John thought.

“Simple. No one did.” 

He made the face again. The ‘we both know what’s going on’-face. John gave him his ‘no, we don’t’-look, and Sherlock got the hint. 

“She tried to stand up. To get up from that chair for the first time in seven years. Of course she couldn’t. But she tried again, rocking the chair until she got to her feet. Unfortunately she was far too weak to stand, not having used her legs for years. The chair was heavy, so it pulled her back. And her body was heavy enough to cause the chair to swing – with enough force, indeed, to hit her head against the wall right behind her. Her muscles had grown back, her bones were fragile due to her age and the fact that she lacked proper nutrition for years. One blow must have been enough to fracture the basis of her skull. As her skin was left unharmed, there was no blood on the wall. But her brain must have suffered severe injury. The food on her table was untouched, so it must have happened quite shortly after her nephew left on his last visit. The telephone was out of reach and screaming for help was no option. When her nephew returned three days later, it was too late.”

John’s mouth had fallen open at some point. He felt terribly sorry for that old woman. He didn’t want to think about her being left all alone to die slowly. Or about her being so lonely, there was no need to get up for seven years. 

Then it hit him. His eyes widened. Sherlock had realised this only when he pushed John against the wall. When he saw him hit it. When he realised it could cause harm if being done violently enough, or when the one being pushed is fragile.  
Sherlock’s eyes were fixed on John. He looked as if he was waiting for something. For John to react, but not merely to the case itself. 

“Do you understand?” 

And John did. In that moment, John knew that when Sherlock pushed him, the rise of adrenaline in his system helped him to think. It helped him made the connection. Gave him what cocaine and cigarettes used to give him. Like a new drug. 

John didn’t answer. For a few moments he didn’t even move. Then he looked at Sherlock, nodded, and left. When he entered his room, he fell onto the bed, suddenly tired. But his brain still didn’t stop. There was this one question, circulating in his head: If this was like a drug to Sherlock – will it become an addiction?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know it sounds quite nasty, but it is in fact possible to merge with your furniture if you do not get up for too long, and it has already happened on several occassions. I googled to make sure!


	4. Chapter 4

John was busy with a patient – hypochondriac, actually not ill at all, showed up every week nevertheless – when his phone buzzed on his desk. He finished the check-up, handed a prescription to his patient (the same as every week, merely some painkillers he could also get without the prescription) and sent him to the reception desk to get his next, unnecessary appointment. Then he checked his phone.

_Morgue. Now. - SH_

John sighed. Sherlock knew he was at the clinic. He knew he’d have appointments. And he probably knew that John would cancel them anyway if Sherlock managed to convince him of the importance of a case, which usually wasn’t very hard. Even after more than two years, John still felt the rush of adrenaline in his body whenever a case turned up. He really could do with working on them full-time, especially because Mycroft was taking care of all costs anyway. But John was quite sure he’d go crazy if he’d be with Sherlock all the time, especially when there’s no interesting case available. Sherlock had a talent for driving people mad. Still, Sherlock was just too sure of John being always available for him. Maybe he should make a point by not turning up one day. But not today.

Beth from the reception wasn’t too happy as she saw John leaving his office too early for lunchbreak. “So, an emergency again?” she said, not in a nasty way of course, but John was still aware that she didn’t fancy the extra work this meant for her.

“Yeah. I’m sorry. I’ll be back tomorrow.”

John left the clinic quickly, trying not to see the waiting patients and feel guilty because of them. He knew he should, but he also knew that he would stop thinking about it as soon as he reached the morgue.

He took a cab to Bart’s, checking the news with his mobile. Maybe he could find something about an extra-mysterious case and thus have a clue about what was waiting for him at the morgue before meeting Sherlock. He found some news, but nothing that would require him at the morgue, ‘ _now’_.

When arriving at Bart’s he handed the cabbie three ten-pound-notes, not caring about his change. Suddenly, he felt terribly excited about starting this new case, about examining the body, looking for clues. The thrill of the chase. But when he entered the morgue, no one seemed to be around.

John cleared his throat. He almost expected Molly to turn round the corner, saying something like ‘Oh, John, it’s you. Uhm, Sherlock has already left, I don’t know where he went…’, but nobody showed up. A body was left on one of the examination tables, though. John decided to have a look even though Sherlock didn’t seem to be around anymore.

On the outside, the body looked fine. Apart from the lack of life, of course. Male, about thirty years old. Suffered hair loss. A fine scar, just above the right eyebrow, well healed and probably just the memory of an accident as a child. Well-trained body. Probably a runner, concerning the calves. The chest had already been opened and stitched close again, so nothing for John to look for there, either. John was just having a closer look at the ears when the door flew open. He was a bit disappointed when Lestrade entered the room but tried not to show it.

“Hey, John. You just missed our super detective. He didn’t seem to have solved it already, though, so you haven’t come here for nothing.”

John tried to calm himself by inhaling deeply. Sherlock rushing off without him was nothing new. He did it on their very first case. Still John felt more angry about it than he usually would. It wasn’t even about the cancelled appointments, or the expensive cab ride. But he felt the adrenaline decreasing inside him, even though there was still a case on. To be honest, Sherlock’s presence added a lot to John’s excitement. For which reason ever.

Lestrade told John about the case, how the dead man’s running partner (John was right about that) had started to worry about him when he hadn’t shown up for their daily run in St. James’s Park for two days, and how he had found the door to the dead man’s flat unlocked when he decided to look for him. He had called the police, which wasn’t able to find anything first. The next day some workers had found the body when emptying a trashcan in a side street not far from the man’s apartment. The dead body was lying next to it, dressed in sporting clothes.

“The cause of death wasn’t visible to the bare eye, but there are some strange marks on the left side of his torso. When Molly examined the body, she found that one of the kidneys was missing. The removal wasn’t done professionally, and the man died of infection.”

John looked at the body. Maybe thirty was a bit too much. Maybe that man had still been in his twenties.

“So, illegal organ trafficking? I’m afraid this happens way more often than we think… Even in London.” John sighed. Of course this case really deserved Sherlock’s attention, but he wasn’t sure whether Sherlock might have left early because the mystery’s solution was too simple to him. Not neat enough.

“Well, yeah. Pretty obvious, though. But that’s not all.” Lestrade scratched the back of his head before going on. “We found the kidney.”

John raised one eyebrow.

“There was this kid brought here a few days ago. Seventeen years old. His parents said he had run away from home about six months ago and they hadn’t seen him since. They didn’t look for him, though. When asked for the reason, his parents just said ‘He was possessed by the devil and would have returned as soon as the demon left him’. He had just come out to his parents as gay the night he ran away. They are very religious.”

John stood with an expression of anger in his face and his fists balled tightly. Children escaping their home because they didn’t get the support they needed, maybe even being kicked out by their parents, was something that made his heart beat faster in rage. He didn’t have any children, but still he couldn’t imagine doing something like this. Especially not for such a reason.

“Anyway, the circumstances of the boy’s dead were strange, too. He was lying in the skate park near Waterloo Bridge one morning.” John remembered reading about this. He remembered being angry about another homeless kid being dead and that no details were mentioned in the article.

“First we thought he died either because of overdosing or froze to death, though the first option seemed more likely. After he was brought to the morgue, someone noticed a strange bulb in the boy’s belly. When they opened him, they found three kidneys, one being unconnected to the body and just – well, how shall I put that … swimming around his insides? I guess you get what I mean.”

Lestrade cleared his throat and turned away, pale suddenly, and John felt the colour leaving his face too. He felt a terrible sickness growing inside him and the urge to throw up.

“Let me guess, it was that man’s kidney they found in the boy’s body?” John new the question was unnecessary, but he wanted to make sure. Lestrade nodded. John turned away, a hand covering his face. Two people dead, one of them a homeless kid, and it looked like someone just wanted to be cruel, to have his kind of fun. Sherlock must be running the streets, even more eager to solve this as usually. No wonder he hadn’t waited for John.

John left the morgue without another word. Lestrade knew where he was heading.

 


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are heating up...

When John arrived at Baker Street, he saw light flooding through the windows of 221b. Sherlock must be home already, which meant that he had probably found something and was experimenting or researching now.

John opened the main door and rushed up the stairs, taking two with each step. His jacket had already slipped off his shoulders when he entered the flat. He didn’t take off his shoes though as he didn’t expect them to stay at Baker Street for too long. He knew Sherlock would want to leave as soon as he finds something new to look for, and John would go with him.

Sherlock was sitting at the kitchen table, staring into his microscope. Beside him there was a plastic bag containing some clothes. They looked filthy, and John could smell them from his spot by the doorframe already. The boy must have worn them for at least a month. And when he died too, of course. The piece lying on top was a shirt, it had probably been black some time, but now it was a strange mix of brown-greyish colours. There were holes all over it.

John took a step towards Sherlock. He wasn’t sure whether his flatmate had noticed his presence at all, his eyes fixed on whatever was lying under the lens of the microscope. John considered interrupting him for a moment, maybe patting his shoulder knowing how especially difficult this case must be for Sherlock. Even though he always seemed as if he didn’t care about anyone, John knew better. He saw Sherlock giving money to the members of his homeless network on many occasions, often without having a task for them. John soon had realised that Sherlock was no stranger to them – they knew who he was, what he was doing. In some cases it was obvious that they had probably met Sherlock back in his darkest times, and that they hadn’t overcome those times themselves.

But there was more when it came to this particular boy. Lestrade said he ran away from home because of his parents not accepting his homosexuality, him being different. Sherlock himself had never been what people called  _normal_ himself. Mycroft had stressed that often enough, and even Mike Stamford indicated it before John got to know Sherlock. No, Sherlock was far from average. Nowadays everybody told you to be yourself, not to change for anyone else. And then when you were, people disapproved. That’s what had happened to Sherlock so many times, and that’s what had driven this boy to the streets. Apart from that, John never asked Sherlock about his sexuality except that first night at Angelo’s. He just assumed Sherlock to be not interested, asexual and aromantic, best on his own. Which was fine, of course. But John remembered Mycroft being nasty about it, and he remembered Sherlock’s face. If even the great Sherlock Holmes feels unwell about his brother’s remarks, how must that teenage boy have felt?

John decided to leave Sherlock and set the kettle instead. He would have a cup of tea and just wait for Sherlock to unfreeze and share his thoughts on the case with John, no matter how long that might take. When the water was boiling, he filled a teapot instead of one cup only so he could pour Sherlock some tea too, even though he probably wasn’t going to touch it at all.

Two hours passed without Sherlock moving, except to change the sample. John had been skipping through the newspaper without actually reading it, not knowing what to do with himself. He didn’t dare turning the telly on and risk distracting Sherlock and making him angry, and he didn’t feel like it anyway. He had grown a bit hungry but decided to wait with getting take away or ordering in, though he knew that Sherlock would reject food anyway. He was still staring into the microscope. John was just about to get up and get himself another cup when Sherlock’s, untouched until then, suddenly flew against the wall next to the kitchen door.

Sherlock stood within a second, turning towards the kitchen sink but not without kicking one of the table’s legs by doing so. The table moved a good amount, the samples sliding over its surface but not falling off. Sherlock was leaning on the kitchen counter now, his back to John. He balled a fist and brought it down on the counter. Three times.

John had never seen Sherlock behaving like this before. He was too surprised to move first, not caring about the cold tea dripping from the wall or the table probably having suffered damage from Sherlock’s attack. He watched Sherlock, and when he saw the man’s breath calming down a bit, he was finally able to get up from his armchair and walk into the kitchen. He came to a halt at the other end of the counter, unsure about what to say. He didn’t want to upset Sherlock even more, though this often happened anyway, no matter what John did or did not say. He knew Sherlock never really meant it when he offended John in such a situation. John was aware of his function as a valve for Sherlock’s aggression.

“Sherlock.”

John had moved a little closer towards his flatmate, a concerned expression on his face. He almost expected Sherlock to just turn towards the door and leave, as he so often did, without looking at John. He was already  preparing mentally to call Mycroft and tell him about Sherlock, when the man turned around.

Sherlock leaned back against the counter on his hands. He didn’t look at John, though, but had his gazed fixed on another point somewhere in space instead. He looked troubled, biting his lip.

“I met Lestrade at the morgue.” When Sherlock didn’t interrupt, didn’t even change his expression in any way, John proceeded. “He told me everything he knew. I … I’m sorry. Have you found anything yet?” John knew that the question was unnecessary. Obviously Sherlock hadn’t. But part of him was anxious to make Sherlock talk, react in any way. Just behave more familiarly. But he didn’t. John started one last attempt. He reached for Sherlock with one of his hands.

When his hand touched Sherlock’s shoulder, the man suddenly moved, and before John was able to even realise what was happening Sherlock had already reached him and turned both of them, John’s back to the counter now. His one hand was still on Sherlock’s shoulder, the other was on the counter’s surface. Sherlock eyes were closed, and his forehead was resting against John’s. Their body’s weren’t touching apart from that spot and John’s hand, but John could feel the heat of Sherlock’s body nevertheless. The next moment Sherlock inhaled deeply, before suddenly regaining distance. John opened his mouth even though he didn’t know what to say, but Sherlock didn’t leave him the chance to think about it. He grabbed one of John’s arms and used it to turn him around, his front to the counter now. Then Sherlock leaned into him again as he had done that one night in the living room. John had almost forgotten about it again, but in that very moment he felt the sensation and excitement returning to his body. Suddenly, heat rose inside him, his cheeks hot. He had to close his eyes and tried to keep his breath steady, but when Sherlock started to repeatedly move himself against John's back in a way one could call _thrusting_ , John’s attempts to stay calm and focused failed completely.

Sherlock’s hands were on his now, holding them in place on the counter. He felt the man’s nose moving over his neck, his warm breath on his skin. _Jesus_. Then, suddenly, Sherlock rammed his teeth into John’s shoulder. John hissed in surprise, but Sherlock didn't withdraw first. Then he let go, only to move to the next spot a few inches from his first bite. John tried to stand the pain, to hold back the screaming. But it got too much, and he started moving his shoulders to shake Sherlock off. But he didn’t move away, didn’t let go. He just pressed against John even more. That was when John felt the bulge in Sherlock’s trousers for the first time.

Sherlock started to move his hips against John, a strange sensation flooding the other man. He felt his blood flowing to his groin. _Oh-oh._ When Sherlock turned him around, John’s arousal must have been pretty obvious. But Sherlock didn’t seem to care, quite the opposite: the fire had returned to his eyes, his hands were moving loosely across John’s body now, over his arms, his chest. John’s was standing in between Sherlock’s legs, not a feet’s distance between the two men. Then Sherlock spoke for the first time since John had arrived at 221b.

“Use your knee.”

 _Pardon me?_ Confused, John attempted to get his face away from Sherlock’s so he could see him properly, see whether this was a joke, whether Sherlock might be out of his mind. But Sherlock didn’t let him. Instead, he moved his mouth towards the side of John’s face. For the fracture of a second, John felt a wet tongue touching his earlobe. Then, as if his body had decided to do so without John’s consent, he obeyed.

His knee moved up Sherlock’s thigh quickly, and suddenly it was placed directly between the man’s legs. Sherlock twitched, his eyes closed, then exhaled in a way that sounded almost like a … moan. Sherlock had definitely moaned. When John repeated the move with more force, Sherlock moaned even more plainly. He threw back his head before opening his eyes suddenly, and looking John directly in the eyes. Moments passed without either of them moving, John’s knee still up in Sherlock’s groin. Then, Sherlock pulled both of them away from the counter, removing John from his private parts by doing so, and put his hands on John’s butt. As if John didn’t weigh anything at all Sherlock lifted him and sat him down on the kitchen counter.

It felt strange at first, John sitting there with his legs around Sherlock’s body, the man’s hands on his thighs, stroking them wildly. John loved doing this with the women he dated, the position indicating quite an obvious intention. For the first time, he found himself in those women’s position – and he loved it. The back of his head was resting against the cupboard, his hands had moved to Sherlock’s hair at some point and were now busy exploring it, when Sherlock spoke again.

“Tighten.”

It was a clear order, and this time John didn’t hesitate a second. He tightened his legs around Sherlock’s torso, more and more, until Sherlock gasped. For a moment he was afraid of having hurt the other man, but when Sherlock’s hands proceeded in stroking all of John’s body even more boldly than before, he knew he probably hadn’t. Or maybe he had, and it was exactly what Sherlock wanted. John tightened again. Sherlock gasped once more, and when John loosened his legs Sherlock pulled him even closer to him, his hands on John’s butt, his mouth moving over John’s throat. John felt more aroused than ever before. He knew that if Sherlock did kiss him now, he would go along with it. And he wouldn’t stop until…

Sherlock sunk to his knees. Surprised and suddenly worried again John wanted to come after him, but then he noticed that Sherlock had turned around and was sitting on the floor now, John’s feet next to his head. He was tenderly stroking John’s toes with his fingers.

There was no sound in the room except of heavy breathing.


	6. Chapter 6

It felt like they must had been sitting like this for hours when Sherlock eventually moved first. His breath sounded normal again, but even though Sherlock had stopped stroking John’s toes at some point John wasn’t able to calm down himself. He could feel his heart pounding inside his chest, so hard it was almost painful.

When Sherlock stood, he turned to John. The expression on his face was a surprise – not angry, annoyed or unaffected. Sherlock smiled. There was an actual smile on his face. John could tell the difference between those Sherlock put on if it was of any use for a case, the smile he fooled clients with, and his real ones. The first time he saw it was the night they had chased that cab with the American tourist in it before returning to Baker Street. They were leaning against the wall in the hall, giggling over ‘Welcome to London’ and ‘And you invaded Afghanistan’. It was the same smile back on Sherlock’s face again.

He took a step towards John and placed his hands beside John’s hips on the counter, then leaned onto them. John couldn’t remember Sherlock ever standing so close yet so casually to him. To anyone. Of course, Sherlock didn’t have a clue about what private space might be, but this was different. Sherlock was intentionally leaning towards John, a smile on his face. John suddenly realised that his mouth had fallen open at some point and tried to close it quickly, but when Sherlock suddenly burst into laughter, it fell open again.

“Your belly is grumbling so loud, it’s a miracle Mrs Hudson hasn’t shown up yet. Let’s get you something to eat.”

If John hadn’t already been feeling the pain of his encounter with the furniture he would have considered asking Sherlock to pinch him, just to make sure he _really_ was awake. Sherlock was still giggling. He recommended getting John some food only a moment ago. _All right. Something must be terribly wrong. Or this is just some stranger looking exactly like Sherlock but not being capable of actually acting like him._

Sherlock turned towards the kitchen sink and a moment later he handed John a glass of water. He took it gratefully, realising his body still wasn’t back to normal again, some sweat sticky on his forehead were Sherlock had touched it with his. John wiped it away.

***

Only half an hour later they were sitting at Angelo’s. John had ordered pizza, feeling terribly hungry. They always got special treatment at Angelo’s, and thus John’s pizza was about twice the size of the regular one, earning him and Sherlock jealous glances from the couple sitting at the table opposite theirs. When John couldn’t manage all the pizza, Sherlock voluntarily ate the rest of it. _Voluntarily_.

After Angelo himself had taken their plates away (and asked whether everything was fine – four times), Sherlock leaned back in his chair, one arm casually hanging over the back of it, his legs crossed. He seemed relaxed, even his face. When Sherlock noticed John’s looks, he started to smile.

“So – want something else? A drink, maybe?” There was no sarcasm in Sherlock’s voice, not a hint of annoyance. If John wouldn’t have known better, he would have thought that Sherlock actually wanted to spent some more time at that table with him. Which was completely out of question, of course. Actually, at least.

John cleared his throat. “A glass of whiskey would be nice, I think.” Sherlock nodded, then waved for Angelo. A moment later he returned with two glasses of whiskey.

They didn’t talk much. Sherlock spent most of the time looking outside the window, that little smile not leaving his face. John hadn’t touched his glass at all when Sherlock was already halfway through it. He was too busy staring at his flatmate. Even if he would have tried, he was sure he couldn’t have looked away. It was all just too strange. Sherlock smiling. Eating. Having whiskey. Oh, and of course their encounter earlier that night. The second one of that kind. John downed his whiskey in one gulp.

Last time, Sherlock had frozen suddenly and rushed off. This time, they were sitting at a restaurant having a drink after dinner and Sherlock acted as casually as never before. Like a complete normal person being out with a friend. John couldn’t decide which was stranger, Sherlock touching John in a wild manner and pushing him around aggressively, or Sherlock acting like everything was completely normal – because nothing, ever, was normal with Sherlock. Not even having dinner. So why did he behave that way? He must have realised that John found this pretty unusual. So maybe he did it on purpose.

John wanted to ask Sherlock. He wanted to ask what the hell was going on, why he was doing what he did, what all of this was supposed to mean, why he was smiling so stupidly. Why he was looking so stupidly attractive doing so. Hell, John just couldn’t look away. It was Sherlock who broke the silence.

“It’s getting late. We should get a cab home.”

John merely nodded and the both of them left Angelo’s.

***

It was another night John kept rolling from one side of his bed to the other, unable to fall asleep. His brain was still trying to work everything out. At a quarter past two he got up.

Sherlock had gone to sleep when John did, too, yawning and wishing John a good night. John had merely mumbled something like ‘Yeah, you too’ and had left without another word. When he had reached his room he had wondered whether Sherlock could be hurt because John reacted the way he did, not being as merry as Sherlock seemed to be. But John couldn’t help it. He was too confused by the events of that evening to ignore them.

He got down the stairs and headed for the loo. There was no sound in the flat apart from his steps. Sherlock must be in bed. Sleeping, probably. John entered the bathroom and turned the lights on, his eyes needing some seconds to get used to it. Then he walked to the sink and looked into the mirror.

He looked tired, his eyes small, narrow and a bit redish. He would need to shave in the morning. He opened the tap, leaned down and poured some water into his face. A sigh left his mouth as the warm water flowed down his cheeks. Some drops ran down his neck and disappeared underneath the collar of his shirt. When he reached for a towel, he remembered something. He took his shirt off.

There were black spots all over John’s arms, a particularly huge one on his elbow. He must have bumped it into something at some point without realising. John turned to see his back and immediately found the spots were Sherlock had bitten him, looking red and swollen, the pattern of Sherlock’s teeth still imprinted into John’s skin.

There it was – the proof that John wasn’t hallucinating. That Sherlock actually had touched him. Violently. And that he had used his mouth, too.

John took a deep breath when he felt his heart racing up again. _Jesus Christ_. He couldn’t tell what exactly was causing that reaction in him. It wasn’t like Sherlock would have acted completely violently towards John, there was some tenderness within the whole thing, too. Apart from that, John knew that he was attracted to Sherlock in some strange way. He first realised about a year ago, but of course it had been that way long before that. His cleverness, the way he saw the world, his ability to solve all these mysteries – seriously, who could not admire that? After meeting Sherlock, John’s whole world was suddenly circulating around his flatmate only. It was as if meeting him for the very first time at Bart’s was the first step towards the edge of a cliff, the cliff being his old life, and shortly afterwards John had jumped. After solving their first case he had known he wouldn’t leave. He had known he would keep flying in the sphere Sherlock created until it would be taken away from him, which he tried not to think of. Sherlock had saved him and thus John’s heart would be his forever. He knew he loved Sherlock. In a platonic way, that is.

But John’s knee being placed between Sherlock’s legs was far from platonic. As well as John’s body quite liking it, too.

John was sure he wouldn’t get any proper sleep that night, so he decided to get to the living room and watch some crappy 3am-telly. He lied down on the sofa, but his eyes had already fallen shut before he could reach for the remote control.

He woke when he felt a body shifting on the sofa beside him.


	7. Chapter 7

“I seriously don’t understand why you always have to be so stubborn, brother dear.”

John recognised the voice immediately, and it took him only a second so sit straight. Sherlock was sitting on the sofa, too, right at the spot where John’s belly must have been only a moment before. He was dressed in his blue dressing gown, his hair wild. He obviously hadn’t had a shower yet. John could smell Sherlock’s usual scent though, the originating from his – far too expensive – soap. It used to linger on Sherlock’s skin for at least 24 hours. John had noticed before.

Sherlock leaned back and crossed his legs, but this time there was nothing casually in it.

“It’s got nothing to do with stubbornness. I simply don’t want to.”

Mycroft didn’t take his eyes off his brother, who kept staring back at him, too. Neither of them showed any reaction to John’s awakening. Mycroft probably didn’t because he was actually able to ignore it, and Sherlock – well. Why had he been sitting there in the first place?

John felt the need to clear his throat.

“Good morning.” John’s eyes went from Mycroft to Sherlock and back. Finally, Mycroft lost the staring competition and looked at John.

“Good morning, Dr Watson. I won’t disturb your domesticity any longer.”

Mycroft went to the door and, before opening it and disappearing, added: “Sherlock, I expect you to think about it.”

John waited for Sherlock to say something. Explain, maybe. Not only Mycroft's visit but also why Sherlock had chosen the sofa instead of his armchair to sit on, obviously not caring about waking John up. Probably intending to do so, though. But as Sherlock seemed to be back to ‘normal’, he gave that hope up quite quickly. Instead, he got up and headed for the loo. No explanation then. Again. Fair enough.

When he returned, Sherlock was still sitting on the sofa, with his laptop in his lap now. He still didn’t say anything, and it was only when John had already had breakfast and a shower that the latter decided to speak first.

“So, your brother bothering you with a case then? National importance, maybe?”

Sarcasm always worked with Sherlock. He took his eyes off the laptop’s screen.

“No. Nothing interesting whatsoever.”

Then he left the room. A moment later John heard the shower being turned on. He sighed, then went up to his room to get dressed. So Sherlock really was back to usual again. John wasn’t even sure what he had expected. Or why he felt disappointment making his stomach clench.

***

Only half an hour later he and Sherlock were sitting in a cab. Sherlock wanted to see one of the crime scenes, even though John was sure he must have examined it on the day the man was found already. Sherlock needing a second go meant that he really was struggling to get behind things.

Lestrade was already waiting when they arrived. He stood close behind the tape marking the crime scene, ready to lift it when Sherlock and John approached him. He started talking before they had slipped through it.

“So, as I have texted youalready: nothing new here. That’s the trashcan they found the body next to. It –“ Lestrade stopped when Sherlock turned away, obviously not listening to him anyway. He turned around to face the main street, the sound of traffic and life not loud but well hearable at their spot in the side street.  Then he tilted his head to the right side, as he always did when thinking, examining, looking for clues. John and Lestrade knew Sherlock well enough to keep quiet. Then he spoke.

“Why did he come here?” He turned around, looking in the other men’s direction. John wasn’t sure whether Sherlock was looking at him expectantly, but when Sherlock neither moved nor spoke any further John shifted his feet and turned, too.

“It’s a quiet place. There are hardly any windows of the buildings’ flats facing this street. Almost too narrow for cars to enter, and dead end anyway. The only things here are the trashcans and that cellar entrance over there.” John had spoken over his shoulder, only turning around again when finished. Sherlock didn’t seem to have moved. John went on.

“The victim most have known this street, he lived nearby. Maybe he had a clue about how frequently it is entered. Even if he didn’t, it’s quite obvious that it probably isn’t too often.”

Sherlock uttered the question John wanted to rise. “So why leaving the main street to come here when he knew he’s dying?”

Lestrade joined the conversation again. “Maybe he wasn’t aware of the state he was in. Or he didn’t want to be seen – for which reason ever.”

“True. But completely wrong whatsoever.”

Sherlock started to move again and walked up to the other two men, then past them. He was heading for the cellar entrance John had pointed at.

Lestrade murmured something about having to make a call, then left to get to the main street. John followed Sherlock.

To his surprise, Sherlock had already disappeared through the cellar’s door. It must have been open already. John considered waiting outside first, but felt too curious to do so. He followed further.

Sherlock was in the middle of the room they had entered, turning repeatedly, scanning the whole room. There was some dirt on the floor. Sherlock knelt down and had a closer look at it, then abandoned it with a growl. John walked up to one of the walls, some dirt sticking on to it, too, but it looked like nothing special to him, too. There was nothing else in the cellar anyway, merely a door leading to another room, locked, and no signs that there had been something until a short time ago. John sighed. Nothing of importance here, then.

“Why did he head here? What made him want to reach this cellar?” Sherlock sounded upset, maybe because he wasn’t used to this. The case had looked quite simple at first but managed to turn more and more complicated and blurred. Adding the dead boy made things dangerous because John knew Sherlock cared about this particular case far more than he did about others. The aspect of emotion usually wasn’t something that would work Sherlock up, but in this case John wasn’t sure about that anymore. There must be some reason why Sherlock was acting so strange, not only at the crime scene but at Baker Street, too. Some reason for his physical outbursts. John tried to tell himself that it wasn’t particularly important that Sherlock directed them at him, maybe it was merely because John was available. But what would Sherlock have done if it had been otherwise, without John being around? Concern rose inside him, and he wanted to speak. But he didn’t get the chance to.

John was so deep in thought he hadn’t noticed Sherlock moving, only when he felt him crashing into his body only an instant before his back hit the wall. Sherlock took a step back, pulling John off the wall again. For a moment he just stood, his hands gripping the collar of John’s jacket, gasping. But John wasn’t as contained. _Fuck off._

By moving his hands up between Sherlock’s arms and moving them over and down on them again, he managed to free himself from Sherlock’s grip. Sherlock’s eyes shot to John’s. Was that a hint of surprise? Before John could think more about it, he had his hands on Sherlock’s shoulders already, turning the taller man and pushing him into the wall behind him, into the same spot where John had hit it too. The man gasped, but John gave him no space to breathe. He leaned into him, as Sherlock had done it before, and moved his knee up his flatmate’s thighs quickly. He hit his soft parts one, two, three times, a gasp leaving Sherlock’s mouth every time he did so. _Shit. I love this,_ John thought. _I love the look on his face. The sounds he makes._

John’s hands left Sherlock’s shoulders and reached for his hands, holding them in place closely to the man’s body. He moved his chest over Sherlock’s, always keeping up the pressure to hold him in place, show who’s in control now. Sherlock sighed. He liked it. John could feel on his thigh that Sherlock _definitely_ liked it. He could have gone on forever, feeling Sherlock so close to him under his control, Sherlock gasping, sighing, with his mouth open, the bulge in his trousers growing. John felt himself getting hard, too. He didn’t care. He didn’t care about them being in a dirty cellar, on a case, with Lestrade waiting outside. John let go of one of Sherlock’s hands and placed his free one on Sherlock’s waist. He started to move it up and down, his thumps reaching into the direction of Sherlock’s crotch, the other fingers slightly stroking one of his buttocks. He was just about to move his hand more to Sherlock’s front side when he heard steps by the cellar’s entrance.

“Oi, you ok down there?”

The men moved from each other as fast possible, Sherlock turning his back to the entrance immediately. John squatted and pretended to examine the dirt on the floor, actually only doing so to hide his boner. Sherlock seemed to be busy with the locked door when Lestrade entered.

“Found anything?” Lestrade raised his eyebrows. "Uhm, John? I'm afraid there's some dirt on your back. How -" This time, John caused the other man to stop.

“Uh, yeah, I know. Lots. We found lots.” John was about to make something up to tell Lestrade when Sherlock suddenly rushed past them.

“Nothing at all,” he said. “Have to go somewhere else. John, cab.”

John had a hard time catching up with Sherlock, the taller man almost running. They had left Lestrade in the cellar without another word. Sherlock waved for a cab as soon as they reached the main street, the first one pulling over immediately. Sherlock told the destination before all doors were closed.

“Baker Street.”


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WARNING: Sexual contact turns into violence. It's not that bad, but if you're not willing to read about two men beating each other up a bit you might want to stop after the comment about the sofa table.

John was still panting when they arrived at Baker Street, the flush still visible in his face. Sherlock had kept staring out of the window, and when the cab finally came to a halt he exited immediately, leaving the payment to John.

He was already rushing up the stairs when John reached the front door. John could hear that he left the door to their flat open. He climbed up the stairs.

The moment he reached the door the flat went completely silent. John entered, checking all directions for Sherlock but unable to spot him. _What the…_

Suddenly, Sherlock emerged from the bathroom. His coat and jacket were gone, and he was busy rolling up the sleeves of his shirt. John couldn’t help but just stand and stare. Watching Sherlock’s fingers being busy with the sleeves was a bit distracting in a strange way. The fact that Sherlock’s eyes didn’t pay any attention to his fingers’ movements but were fixed on John instead didn’t make it any better. John tried to return Sherlock’s gaze. He would have liked to look self-confident, provocative. To pretend being totally unaffected, not impressed. But it was only when both sleeves were successfully rolled up that John managed to take his eyes off Sherlock’s arms and fingers, and the sight he was given made him gasp.

Sherlock’s narrowed eyes looked dark again, lust rioting in them. His mouth was closed, and when he noticed that he was holding John’s full attention he started to smile. Not the kind of smile John had encountered at Angelo’s two nights before though. It was a smile full of anticipation. Yes, this definitely was anticipation lighting up Sherlock’s entire aura. John inhaled through his parted lips before licking them. He knew he should have wondered why exactly he _again_ was doing that, should have cared about how that must have looked like. But he couldn’t care less. Anything Sherlock could have seen in that reaction of John was probably absolutely correct. _Shit,_ John thought. _What on earth is he waiting for?_

As if Sherlock had heard his thoughts he took a step towards John, being so close their bodies almost touched, and put his hands on John’s hips. John copied the movement, and as soon as they were so close he couldn’t see Sherlock’s face anymore without actually turning his head it seemed he regained the spirit he had felt in that cellar not even half an hour before. He pulled the taller man towards him, his lips finding his neck immediately. Sherlock sighed, his hands moving to John butt again. John never had his butt touched like this before. It was completely intoxicating and enough for John’s brains to stop operating. Of course he should have worried about this, should have found it strange, and he actually knew he was going to ponder about this _a lot,_ but not just yet. Right then he couldn’t manage to think about anything else than what was happening in that very moment. Think about anything but him. _Sherlock_.

Their faces started to move against each other in a way that must have looked very much like snogging, and even though their lips didn’t touch John could swear it felt as good. He wanted it to happen. Definitely wanted it. But some part of him subconsciously held him back. John felt Uncertainty, the little ugly monster sitting in the corner of his mind, clearing its throat. _No. Not now._

It was that moment when Sherlock’s hand left John’s butt and moved to his front side instead. Then he started to push him towards to living room. John didn’t know how to feel – on the one hand, he was terribly excited about what was going to happen once they would enter a room with more available space for … whatever. On the other hand he couldn’t help but feel a bit disappointed that Sherlock didn’t pull him in the other direction, towards his bedroom. John would have gone along with it. He knew he would have.

Sherlock kicked the door open and paused in the doorframe. He turned the both of them until John’s back was against. _Damn, he really is into this. Can’t blame him though._

Slowly, Sherlock pushed John into the frame, but not as violently this time. Instead, he leaned forward, his lips brushing John’s ear before whispering into it.

“Take that coat off.”

John obeyed. He started to open the zipper but it were Sherlock’s hands that actually wiped the fabric off John’s shoulders. He suddenly felt vulnerable even though he was still fully dressed. It was the combination of Sherlock’s long fingers, the fingers John had been unable to take his eyes off, slowly moving down John’s shoulders and arms, and the fact that Sherlock’s lips parted by doing so, that – once again – made John unable to move.

“Wearing anything underneath that jumper?” Sherlock’s voice was merely a whisper, but sounded so rough it had potential to make John go crazy. He decided to answer by taking his jumper off, wearing trousers and a t-shirt now.

Sherlock took a step away from John, his eyes moving from John’s face to his feet. Then the smiled – in the anticipative way – and returned his gaze to John's face. “Yeah”, he said. “That’ll do for now.”

John was about to frown when Sherlock pulled him out of the doorframe and into the living room. John realised that the table usually standing in front of the sofa wasn’t there anymore. He managed a quick glance through the room but couldn’t find it somewhere else either. A second later he understood why Sherlock had removed it.

His back hit the floor hard, he could hear his spine crack. It cracked even more when Sherlock came down on him right away, his hands grabbing into John’s upper arms. John didn’t even notice Sherlock was tangling his legs around his, only when he suddenly tightened and pain rushed through John’s whole body. _Bloody hell._ John screamed, and Sherlock let go for a second, only to tighten again. When John started to scream once more, he leaned down.

“Come on. Defend yourself. Fight back…”

He moved his body up, his chest lying on John’s face now and pressing him to the ground. It was painful, and the more weight Sherlock applied the more painful it got. John screamed again, but this time it was in anger. He started to try to move his arms and legs, to escape from Sherlock’s grip. He lifted his hips in order to force Sherlock to untangle his legs, and when he didn’t John managed to lower one side far enough for Sherlock to fall off. He let go of John’s hands and John seized the chance to first sit and then stand up. Then he leaned down and managed to push Sherlock so he would lie on his stomach, allowing John to sit down on his back. He immediately grabbed Sherlock’s arms and pulled them back and up, and he only stopped when the man underneath him started to scream. He rolled off Sherlock’s back and on his own, a bit out of breath but satisfied of having shown Sherlock who really has the upper hand once again. At least he thought so.

He hadn’t even noticed that Sherlock had already gotten back to his feet. Awareness only hit him when he was pulled to his own by two strong hands grabbing the collar of his t-shirt. This didn’t seem to be over yet.

As soon as he was standing straight Sherlock pushed him away, creating a bit of space between them. Sherlock was breathing heavily, too. He was leaning towards John a bit, his knees slightly bent, his whole body tense. As if he was preparing to fight.

John copied Sherlock’s posture, trying to look as dangerous as he was convinced he actually was. Then Sherlock came towards him, and by grabbing one of John’s wrists and twisting it skilfully John was bending over only a second later, his arm on his back and totally in Sherlock’s control. He tried to straighten up again, but when he did Sherlock merely raised John’s arm a bit more, adding more pain to the position. John’s face turned even more red. That was a standard-move. Kids learn this in primary school. And yet John, the soldier, was trapped. He exhaled heavily, letting Sherlock know how angry he was about this.

“Cute.”

John couldn’t believe what he just heard. It wasn’t just Sherlock obviously having an advantage right now. It was Sherlock making fun of him, provoking him even more by doing so. And he was probably not only completely aware of that but also intending that exact thing. John started another attempt to move away, but Sherlock merely stepped next to him. Then he moved one of his legs in front of John’s, and by pulling the arm that was locked on John’s back he made him fall. John hit the floor face down.

He kept lying there for a moment, trying to think about something he could do. Something that would be efficient to regain superiority. This encounter with Sherlock had changed from being quite arousing to being very … He couldn’t even name this. He was angry, furious in fact, and he could just get up and leave. But he certainly wasn’t going to do that. He wanted to fight back. To see Sherlock being under his control again. And he had no idea where that need – that _desire_ – to make Sherlock feel the same pain, to control him, came from. He knew he didn’t have to fight back – he really, _really_ wanted to.

John let another moment pass before swiftly getting to his feet again. He slowly turned on the spot, and when his gaze found Sherlock the latter was sitting on the sofa, legs crossed, smiling. But it was yet another smile on his face. He looked amused. Amused by John’s failed attempts to free himself, by forcing him to lie on the ground with his face down. John balled his fist. Sherlock’s smile widened. That was when John couldn’t resist the urge to come for Sherlock any longer.

He was almost running towards the sofa, leaving Sherlock hardly enough time to untangle his legs, and when he finally reached him he jumped onto him. He locked Sherlock’s neck in his arm pit, his hands furiously punching Sherlock’s back while applying pressure to his neck. Sherlock’s hands found John’s butt again, but this time he used it to grab the man’s body when he stood up. John felt Sherlock getting to his feet but didn’t stop punching him. Sherlock was walking up to the middle of the room. John pushed himself up Sherlock's body even more and attempted to lean forward to hit Sherlock’s lower sides, intending to force the other man to stop, when he realised something was wrong.

The next thing he felt was his head hitting the ground frontally as he was unable to use his hands to stop the fall, his neck and skull cracking. The rest of his body hit the ground shortly afterwards. He saw Sherlock managing to stop his own fall with his hands and immediately turning around to see John, an expression of concern on his face suddenly. John saw a hand reaching for his face, Sherlock’s lips moving, but he couldn’t hear him properly. It was as if a pillow was pressed against his ears, making him almost deaf. He opened his mouth to tell Sherlock, but suddenly everything went black.


	9. Chapter 9

There were voices - unfamiliar ones, then Sherlock's, then the unfamiliar ones again. John opened his eyes, but when he did it felt as if he was rotating, as if someone had tied him to a carousel and he had been revolving with it for hours. He felt sickness crawling up his throat. _God, no_. He wanted to ask for help, for someone to stop this, but he didn't even manage to open his mouth properly, fearing he would puke all over the carpet. Gladly, someone most have noticed his attempt of joining the conversation and he felt several persons turning towards him.

"Dr Watson, can you hear me? If so, could you nod?"

John nodded. The movement hurt his head, his neck felt tight. He clenched his teeth to stop himself from screaming. Shit, what the hell had happened?

"Dr Watson, I'm afraid you've hit your head quite badly. You probably feel dizzy and sick. Your muscles are stiff because your body is in defensive-mode. I'm sure you know what that means for us to do now."

John knew they had to put him in recovery position, but right now he couldn't concentrate on anything else but the massive headache growing in his head. And concerning his sickness he really didn't fancy getting moved, but knew there was no way to avoid it. So he just nodded.

It felt like it must had taken ages, but John felt the sickness slowly refraining from his body. The headache didn't, though. After about fifteen minutes he felt capable of starting another attempt of opening his eyes.

There were two paramedics in the living room. One was busy collecting and packing equipment, the other was noting something down. There was someone behind him, a hand on John's back, but he didn't feel able to turn and have a look. Though he did have an idea who might be kneeling behind him. Or a hope, that is. Only seconds after he successfully opened his eyes and blinked a few times he heard Sherlock's voice from behind him.

"John... John."

Within an instant Sherlock left his position behind John and took one in front of him, kneeling, his hands on John's cheeks and his face close. His eyes flickered from one spot on John's face to the next, as if searching for something, an expression of deep concern in his face.

"Can you hear me? Are you ok? I mean, are you..." He turned his face away. When he turned back, the expression of concern had even more deepened. He looked hurt, biting his lip, and his eyes... God. There were no words to describe how worried Sherlock looked. John felt the urge of getting up and hugging him, tight, to reassure him that everything was fine, but trying would have been quite a bad idea. Instead, he lifted one arm to put his hand on Sherlock's face and pulled it towards his. Feeling his forehead against his, even though cold and slightly sweaty at the same time, caused an unfamiliar feeling of calmness in John. Feeling Sherlock did.

"I'm so sorry." Sherlock's voice was even less than a whisper, more like a breath. John felt his heart clenching at the sound. Without actually controlling it his thumb started stroking Sherlock's cheek. He leaned into the touch but kept his eyes down. He looks so hurt, John thought. As if he had hit the ground.

"Uhm, excuse me." It was one of the paramedics, the one who had also talked to John some minutes before. He cleared his throat pointedly. "How do you feel, Doctor Watson?"

John's hand left Sherlock's cheek and he lifted his upper body to lean on one elbow while stroking his forehead. The tender moment he and Sherlock had shared only seconds ago had almost made him forget about it.

"Well, it's not fine. Quite a nasty headache and still a bit dizzy, but I think we can manage. Thank you. Next time I'll... uhm. Watch my step." John tried to smile half-heartedly, but both the paramedics raised their eyebrows.

"Yeah," the second one said, "Maybe you should make sure to not hit the ground with your head first when... stumbling." The paramedics shared a look before nodding at John and Sherlock. Then they left. Sherlock, who hadn't moved until they left, got up to close the door behind them.

"Are you sure you're ok?"

"Not quite, no. My head is burning. Guess I could do with some rest." John sighed. There were other things he'd quite like to do instead. He closed his eyes to recall the moment before the fall, the image of Sherlock that was burned into the insides of his eyelids. Going to sleep with it wasn't too bad, but proceeding would have been better. A lot better indeed. John considered whether to try and just go on with their encounter, but when he got up and started to stagger immediately he knew today's limit was reached. Definitely. He sighed again.

"Could be worse though. Thanks for calling the ambulance."

Sherlock muttered something John couldn't hear. Sherlock was by his side before he could ask about it, and with his assistance they managed to manouvre John up the stairs. Sherlock had avoided to look John in the face since the paramedics had left, and as soon as John seemed to be safely placed in his bed he muttered something about the Yard and having to leave, and before John had the chance to ask for details Sherlock had already rushed off, shutting the door behind him.

***

The clock on his nightstand showed 9.53pm when John waked. He didn't even remember falling asleep, and his head didn't feel any better at all. Great, he thought. This is going to linger. His throat felt terribly dry. Tea might have been a bit too much for his stomach, but a simple glass of water... He swung the sheets back and tried to get up, but as soon as he sat upright the dizziness returned. Shit. He looked at the nightstand to his right. His mobile was placed next to the clock. It hadn't been there when Sherlock had put him into bed. So he must he had returned and left it there when John had already been asleep. To his surprise, there was a new text message when John switched it on.

 

**I'm sorry. I'm so terribly sorry. - SH**

 

John swallowed. Okay, the fall wasn't too nice, rather painful indeed, but Sherlock hadn't done it on purpose. Things had gotten a bit wild and he had lost control. An accident that could have happened to anyone. Sherlock certainly knew this. So why was he still apologising?

 

**It's okay. Accidents happen. Are you home? - JW**

 

**It's not okay.**

**I'm out. I had to. I'm sorry. Do you need something? - SH**

 

Sigh. Maybe just sitting for a few minutes would wash away the dizziness and John could get downstairs as easily as ever. And if it didn't he could still call Mrs Hudson, or get down the stairs on his butt.

 

**John. I know I should say something. Not only about the accident but also about the events leading to it.**

**I know I should have done so before. I just don't know how to put it, and I'm not used to that.**

**I'm not used to not knowing how to put things. Do you understand? - SH**

 

John sighed. He undestood. Quiet well to be honest. Because he had no clue what to say either. He laid his face in his hands, softly rubbing his tired, hurting eyes. Talking about this probably would be necessary at some point. But John had no clue to which result that might lead. He didn't even know how he felt about it, or which outcome he was wishing for. But he knew that having Sherlock close was the best thing he had felt in months, years possibly. He didn't know what it was, why they were doing it and what exactly lead to it anyway, he just knew he wouldn't want to do without it if he had the choice... What if Sherlock was regretting whatever this thing is they're doing? Would John want to know? Maybe talking about it now could spare him a lot of pain afterwards. He grabbed his phone.

 

**I understand. Come home. - JW**


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock tries to explain, and John finds himself not only surprised but hit by realisation as well.

It took Sherlock hardly 15 minutes to return to Baker Street. John had managed to clear his head a bit, get up and down to the kitchen and had already set the kettle when he heard Sherlock sneaking into the hallway. He listened carefully for the sound of Sherlock slipping off his shoes and disappearing into his bedroom, but nothing happened. For a moment, John wasn't sure whether Sherlock really had returned or whether his head was still just being dizzy. Then Sherlock entered the kitchen.

"Hey." John tried to put on a reassuring smile. It must have looked quite pathetic instead.

Sherlock didn't say anything first. He was just standing by the counter next to the door, leaning onto it, his eyes wandering through the room but avoiding John completely. Then he cleared his throat.

"How are you feeling?"

John didn't answer. First, he wanted Sherlock to look at him, which didn't happen. Second, he didn't even know how he felt. A bit confused, yeah. Still with a headache. But that was merely subtext. No, there were other things racing through his mind, other things that were far more present to him than the effects of the accident. He almost managed to ignore them. But he couldn't ignore that one big question in his head. Not anymore.

"Sherlock," he started. Sherlock still wasn't looking at him. "What is this?"

"Well, I guess you've hit your head quite hard. Apparently, everything is fine with your spine, but we should be careful whether symptoms of concussion occur. The statistic for accidents like this...."

"Sherlock. This isn't what I'm talking about. It isn't."

Finally, Sherlock lifted his head to meet John's eyes. John raised his eyebrows in order to look as self-confident, and serious, as possible. Then he crossed his arms on his chest and laid his head to the side. _I'm waiting_.

"Don't you think taking care of the latest incident as well as possible is far more important?"

A little laugh left John's mouth.

"No, I don't."

Sherlock sighed. He pushed himself from the counter, put his hands on his hips and made some slow steps through the kitchen. _Probably not intending to escape,_ John thought. _I’d dare him_. Then Sherlock turned to John.

"What do you want to know?"

They just stood there for a moment, looking into each other's eyes. Sherlock's face... He looked like an animal suddenly trapped, surrounded by people staring, waiting for the attack. He looked unhappy, nervous even. John had never seen Sherlock like this. There seemed to be more than one premiere that night. John had known since the day of their first case that Sherlock wasn't the unemotional machine he pretended to be. That there were people he cared about, that he had feelings, felt happiness and hurt. Sentiment. But he had never seen him like this – insecure, almost… vulnerable. John felt how the distance between them caused him a pain in the stomach, how his body was almost drawn to Sherlock's by some mysterious gravity - the gravity Sherlock himself was. The gravity John had been pulled into since the first day they met and which he hadn't left ever since. Which he didn't even intend to leave ever. But he resisted and kept his place by the kettle. Even though it hurt.

He actually wasn't sure what to say, how to start this conversation. Whether to ask a casual, not too explicit question first. No. It's been that way for long enough.

"Why are you doing this?"

"Doing... what, exactly?"

Of course. _Very explicit, then._

"Attacking me. Touching me. Pushing me into walls. Stuff like that." John tried to sound as casual as possible, but his throat turned dry while speaking. He was nearly coughing by the end. _Absolutely pathetic._

Sherlock shook his head slowly.

"Maybe just because… it's fun?"

John raised one eyebrow. Even though he wasn't entirely sure whether Sherlock wasn't actually telling the truth, looking as if he was doubting Sherlock's statement was certainly more beneficial than looking like he was falling for Sherlock's simple explanation - ha, as if _that_ was an explanation! - just yet. It seemed to work. Sherlock inhaled deeply before going on.

"I need you to understand something. For someone like me, getting distracted isn't that easy. It's quite hard indeed. My mind is like an engine that never stops running. But - and you're not going to hear this often, so listen carefully - I sometimes have to calm my thoughts in order to not... you could call it explode, I guess. Or... I don't know. I don't have the words for it. Which doesn't happen too often to me. Doesn't happen at all to be honest. With one exception. You."

It took John some effort to keep his jaw closed. _What the hell is happening here?_

"I'm a master of argument. I always have something to reply. You once called me Mr Punchline. And yes - that's who I am. But not when it comes to you. I don't know what it is, or why it's happening, but as soon as you're around I have to focus much more to stay on track. And as soon as I don't I'm run out of words. It's as if my mind stops for a few moments. And currently I have a huge need for exactly this: not having to think for some time."

Sherlock exhaled in a long breath, then he shook his head once more.

"I know it's hard to understand. I don't expect you to. I don’t doubt your cognitive capacity, but I'm not sure whether there even is something to understand here because I'm not sure whether this makes any sense either. I just know that the bodily exhaustion I was lately experiencing with you made me feel a lot better afterwards. Because - believe it or not - I tend to feel quite awful from time to time. It just helped me to stop thinking and focus on something else. I'm sorry."

Sherlock's eyes found John's face again. They moved across him, as if he was trying to read something out of it, read John's mind. He still looked hurt. And terribly confused. All John wanted to do was to reach out for the other man and pull him into his arms. Hold him tight. Tell him it was okay. Because it was. The things Sherlock had said were a surprise to John and he wasn't sure what to think about it yet. But he knew how hearing that he had some special effect on Sherlock made his belly warm and his cheeks flush, he knew how the words made his heart beat faster, and he knew that he would never, never take this away from Sherlock. And he knew he felt it too - this strange thing words for weren’t made yet. Whatever it was, John knew he was absolutely willing to continue. The way Sherlock was looking that very moment caused things in him - _God, where is my mind_...

He tried to put it into words. Tell Sherlock it was fine, that he didn’t judge, quite the opposite indeed, that he didn't have to explain any further. But there was nothing he could have said that felt appropriate, fitting. Enough. So he just put it simple.

"Okay."

Sherlock looked up. The next thing John felt was being pulled into an embrace and hugged so tight, it felt like their bodies were melting into one. And John could have sworn, in that very moment, they were. He felt Sherlock's heartbeat against his chest, his breath in his hair and on his ear. He smelled expensive soap and rain, mixing and becoming that exquisite scent for which there was no name but _Sherlock_. Within one second, everything around them switched to mute. The cars in the street in front of 221b, the ticking of the clock, Mrs Hudson’s quiet steps downstairs – all these things left John’s perception. He didn't care about anything anymore but standing there with Sherlock, pressed to him tight, and the world stood still. Sherlock suddenly was everything he saw, heard, felt. Everything he cared about, the only thing on his mind. The feeling of Sherlock’s body against his, his soft, fragile skin of his neck against John’s face, his curly hair touching John’s forehead, his arms around John’s waist. His whole body leaning into John’s. He felt every single inch of it.

And then he knew.

_I love him._

_God help me._

_I love him._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to everyone who's been around so far! Please feel free to leave a comment and tell me what you think - I'm curious to hear about it!


	11. Chapter 11

They had left it like that. At least for the moment.

John had gone up to his room again, aware that sleep, a lot of it, would be the best thing to do. Maybe, he thought, the right amount of it would wash away more than just the headache.

John was absolutely sure that he must have gone crazy. Completely insane indeed.

He wasn't sure which part of him had brought up these thoughts. It certainly hadn't been his brain – being in love with Sherlock, _Sherlock_ of all people, _what in the world_... _How did that happen?_ There was no use denying it. Realisation had hit John – directly in his face, impossible to ignore. And now it was sitting by the end of his bed, grinning at the stupid fool he was.

There were three options.

Option A: Stop any form of contact until he's got his brains back.

Option B: Tell Sherlock and see what happens.

Option C: Don't do anything and see what happens.

Option A was actually no option at all, John knew that. He would never decide to leave Sherlock and Baker Street behind – especially not because his hormones seem to have hit their heads as well. Unless Sherlock wanted him to leave, of course. Which could be the result of Option B. So that one wasn't it either.

Option C, then.

_Shit_. How was this _ever_ going to work? John felt incredibly stupid – making a secret of his feelings because he's too afraid of the possible consequences. He had never been like that. John had been only ten years old when he swore he would always be honest about his feelings – that was when the girl living next door, whom he had secretly had a crush on, had moved away, never to return. It had been the tragedy of his 'first love'. Of course he had been smiling about his lovesick self only little time later – but he still held on to his vow. Until now, that is. But there was no way John could see him being honest about this having a positive effect. Sherlock wasn't like that. _Not quite my area_. Sherlock would probably seek distance as a consequence. John wasn't sure what was more important to Sherlock - John, his flatmate, friend and colleague, or living uninterruptedly in his own sphere, deleting anyone who might put a risk to it. Deleting anyone whose behaviour didn't match Sherlock's expectations.

Even if Sherlock wouldn't kick him out – how could they possibly go back to normal afterwards? Sherlock certainly had no idea about how to act in a situation like that. John didn't either, to be honest. This thing had never happened to him before – being in love with his bloody flatmate. _His bloody male flatmate. Sherlock_.

Going on cases together would certainly not be a possibility anymore. Hell, even a cozy Sunday afternoon at Baker Street would become strange. Or going out for dinner. Basically everything they're usually doing without thinking about it, parts of their everyday life.

No way. He couldn't risk that. Baker Street, Sherlock – these things were the very essence of what had made life bearable for him after returning from Afghanistan. He wasn't going to give this up – not because his stupid little heart having developed a slight crush. It'll go away.

Sure of it.

Certainly.

Will it?

***

Sherlock was gone when John woke the next morning. He tried not to think about it. Nothing unusual whatsoever. In fact, Sherlock didn't return until late afternoon – John had already had lunch and settled onto the sofa in front of the telly when Sherlock finally returned. John knew when he heard the familiar sound of a black cab coming to a halt in front of Baker Street - clients never took a cab to get to them. At least not directly – they usually got off at Marylebone Road or Gloucester Place or somewhere else nearby, but never directly in front of 221b. Since Sherlock was suddenly present in the media, some even preferred to walk through Regent's Park first. It's not the most common thing to visit a consulting detective after all. People tried to avoid being seen. Sherlock never did. It wasn't as if he'd distinctly like to show off his cleverness and himself in public - he just didn't care. There were actually a lot of things Sherlock didn't seem to care about.

John's thoughts were interrupted when Sherlock finally entered the flat. His collar was turned up and his hair was tousled, though not in a bad way. He looked... wild. Sort of. As if Sherlock had just taken part in either a fight or a good shag. John had to look away in order to stop his thoughts on the subject. It had probably merely been windy outside. Very windy.

"How are you feeling?" Sherlock asked while taking off his coat. Then he entered the room, rolling up his sleeves before ruffling his hair with both hands. He was wearing his purple shirt. _That bloody purple shirt_. John remembered it being a lot looser on Sherlock's chest. Or his arms. _Jesus_. He suddenly realised he had never actually paid attention to the details of Sherlock's body before. There had simply never been a reason to. He looked a lot more trained than John would have thought. He remembered thinking of Sherlock as far too skinny when he had moved in. The younger man must have gained some weight – and probably muscle – since John had observed him last. He couldn't help but let his eyes wander across Sherlock's body a bit more - down to his waist, his hips, his legs. Maybe, if he'd turned around... _JESUS CHRIST. JOHN WATSON. BLOODY CONTAIN YOURSELF._

"John?"

He almost jumped off the sofa by surprise, having totally forgotten about Sherlock's question while being busy trying not to drool. He blushed immediately. He saw Sherlock trying to avoid smiling – he must have realised. _Oh, god_.

"Uh, fine. I mean, not quite a hundred percent, but a lot better than yesterday. You were off? Something about a case?" John answered, suddenly desperate to change the subject.

"Yeah. They found another one."

John knew immediately what Sherlock was talking about. He had almost forgotten about the case due to the more recent events – _due to Sherlock_ –, but as soon as Sherlock spoke the words he was back to investigation-mode. It actually was a bit welcome - not the dead person, of course, but the distraction from his own thoughts.

"Some elderly women found a body while going for a walk in Hampstead Heath. It was half buried, with the upper half of the body leaning into a pond. Female. Nothing about her identity yet. To be honest, there was nothing to say about the cause of death either – but there were certain indicators that lead me to the conclusion that she's the third one."

John raised one eyebrow. It was part of their silent understanding. It meant that he was still following and wanted Sherlock to go on.

"Young – probably still in her twenties. Very worn out clothes, probably homeless. No purse. Hadn't been to the hairdresser for at least three years. But there was more to it.” He paused.

“She had my number in her pocket."

John eyes widened in shock. Someone of Sherlock's homeless network.

"Do you think this was... coincidence?"

"What do we say about coincidence?"

John sighed. _The universe is rarely so lazy_.

"There are about 300 homeless persons in London – officially, at least. There must be some reason to target one of those who are in contact with a detective. Of course, it could have been pure stupidity - but then, on the other hand, we know that all these deaths were probably planned and performed by someone who can't be a newbie when it comes to crime. Too clean. Too well-planned. Almost no evidence. Whoever is doing this – they wouldn't have chosen their victims by coincidence or without studying them properly beforehand. That's not the plan. But what's the plan, then? What's it?"

Sherlock walked to the window. He pulled the curtain a bit aside, staring down into the street. His voice was merely a whisper now.

"What is this about?"

John knew he had no answer for this. Sherlock had probably run around London all day and didn't seem to have an answer either. He wouldn't have returned so soon if it had been otherwise. John wanted to get up, walk up to Sherlock. But he didn't know whether that was the right thing to do. Actually, he had no idea about what to do – or say – right  now. He felt sick.

"We have an appointment tomorrow. If you feel well, that is."

John looked up. His eyes narrowed a bit in confusion.

"An appointment?"

"Yes. Here. 6pm. Be dressed in sporting clothes." 

With these words, he grabbed his coat again, mumbled something about having to get some stuff done, and left. John kept sitting on the sofa, feeling a bit caught by surprised and... nervous. He had no idea what this was about. _Strange. Very strange indeed._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait and a huge hug and THANK YOU to everyone who has left a comment/kudos or messaged me on tumblr so far! It's lovely to hear from you and you really made my week :)


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As requested by @saayluvs1d, this chapter is a bit longer (about twice the lenght) than usual ;)  
> Warning: includes some graphic violence.

The next day, very much in time at 5:30pm, John was standing in the middle of the living room, dressed - as requested - in sporting clothes.

He had spent at least two hours searching his clothes for something he'd feel comfortable with in Sherlock’s presence. Not merely his presence though - Sherlock had told him to be dressed like that. They certainly weren't going to have an evening in watching telly in cozy clothing. No. Coziness certainly wasn't what the clothes should be for. So he kept searching until finally finding a muscle shirt and some sweatpants that looked at least a bit more like going to the gym than lying on the sofa. He had been standing in front of the mirror next to his wardrobe, trying to look... well. Impressive? Manly? Strong? He had suddenly realised that his jumpers covered a lot more than he would have had expected. _Wow_ , he had thought. _Maybe I really should hit the gym_. He had chosen a sweat jacket in addition to the muscle shirt. It made everything look a bit less... wobbly.

As he was standing there he shot another look down himself, self-consciousness slowly but surely rising in him. _God. I'm acting like a teenage girl. Captain John H. Watson. Get your shit together._

Maybe Sherlock merely wanted to do some exercises to make sure that John's body really was unharmed - it had been quite a hard hit after all. Suddenly, John wondered what Sherlock had told the paramedics about how it had happened. Had he made something up, or just been completely honest? Had he explained at all? He must have said something, otherwise their little accident could have looked like domestic violence. _Domestic violence_. Was that a suitable title for what they were doing? Domestic violence with the consent of both sides?

John sighed. 5:45pm. Sherlock had been out since shortly after breakfast and still hadn't shown up. Maybe this was indeed an appointment - involving a third party, a physiotherapist or similar. Maybe Sherlock wouldn't show up alone. Or maybe he wouldn't show up at all and John would have to open the door to someone else instead. If Sherlock really had consulted someone else to check on John's bodily ability, he would actually be glad not having Sherlock around. Being examined in front of Sherlock's deducing eyes wasn't the happiest thought to him. He felt intimidated by it,like being naked in front of Sherlock. God, he had almost died from embarrassment that one time when he had left his pants in the bathroom after showering in the evening and only realised after Sherlock had been inside, too. It had merely been his underwear. But still, the thought made him uncomfortable.

He had been pressed to Sherlock's body in what was probably the closest way of being pressed to someone without actually having sex. He had buried his hands in Sherlock's hair. He had touched his back, his butt, his chest, and almost his... well. And he had definitely had things in mind that made him blush by the very thought of them. Hell, he was in love with the guy. And still he felt completely embarrassed about leaving his underwear lying around or having to do gymnastics in front of Sherlock. What the hell was he afraid about? After all, what could possibly happen? He had nothing to loose because there was nothing he had in the first place. And all these embarrassing things certainly wouldn't avert anything because there was nothing that could have developed between them anyway. Sherlock wasn't like that. He didn't care for these things. Didn't care for John. At least not like that.

John was just about to check the time once more when he heard the door to their apartment being opened.

"Oh, good Lord, it is dusty in here! John, are you there?"

John sighed. He recognised the voice immediately. The clock said 5:56pm. God, not now!

He jumped to the sofa and placed himself as casual as possible on it before shouting "Living room, Mrs Hudson!" It could have raised suspicion if he had stood in the middle of the living room for apparently no reason at all. Mrs Hudson was used to strange things going on in the flat above hers - Sherlock had been her tenant for several years even before John had moved in too, and John always imagined these times to be even less, well, usual than they were now. At least they had been tidying up every now and then since John had moved in, even though it was usually left to John to do the proper cleaning. They had once thought about actually hiring a housekeeper instead of relying on Mrs Hudson's benevolence, but the skull on the mantelpiece, the occassional storage of body parts in the fridge and - most importantly - Sherlock's varying mood had caused them to rather keep things the way they were. Besides, John was sure that some part of Mrs Hudson would feel a bit jealous about another woman taking care of them. Even though she complained often, in the end they were what she called _her boys_.

"Oh, John, dear! I heard of that little accident of yours! Sherlock shouldn't always drag you with him - such dangerous things you're always doing, the two of you! Good thing you merely slipped and hit your head! Could have been you falling off a roof, too! Mrs Williams, you know, the one living opposite, her son was run over by a tube... Terrible story, I can tell you... Remember the funeral, oh, the poor mother! Wouldn't want to bury any of you boys..."

John was just about to reassure her that he was fine and none of them was going to die just now when they were interrupted by the sound of the front door being slammed shut downstairs. She slightly jumped on her spot by the door in the living room, then took a step into the hall to open the flat door.

"Sherlock! I was just talking to John making sure he was fine... You should look after him more, I tell you... Dear, you look strained! Shall I get the both of you some tea? I think I have some biscuits -".  

John couldn't see or hear what it was that had suddenly stopped her, but it must have been very effective. Some mumbling about her having to cook was all he heard before the flat door closed again. Mrs Hudson had left. For a moment the flat went completely silent. For a reason unknown to him, John thought it was best not to move just yet. The clock was ticking. 6:00pm. Finally, Sherlock entered the living room – in time to the very minute. John's mouth fell open.

It wasn't the outfit itself. Sherlock was wearing a pair of simple, dark blue sweat pants and a black t-shirt – like any other guy preparing for an evening on the sofa would. That wasn't special. What made it special was that Sherlock was wearing it. It was quite a contrast to his usual suit. To be honest, John had never seen Sherlock in anything but either a suit or pyjamas before, and he had always done his best not to pay any attention to the pyjamas. Even though they shared a flat, John always tried to maintain a certain distance between them - especially after unsuccessfully hitting on Sherlock on their first evening at Angelo's. John had been a bit afraid of getting kicked out if he had shown too much unwelcome interest in Sherlock. So he had always turned his back when his stares could had given him away. But not this time – John’s eyes were fixed on his flatmate, still standing in the doorway and looking like a god in sporting clothes. He licked his lips. Sherlock started to smile.

"So... after the most recent events I made a decision. I am not willing to put you at any risk." He entered the room slowly, his hands folded behind his back – his usual pose.

"But, as you have probably noticed, this kind of spending your free time is indeed a bit risky. The list of things that could possibly happen and thus represent a risk unfortunately is very long – the accident from two days ago being one of the worse. The best way, of course, is avoiding risky situations like that. Or, in other words: Me leaving you alone."

John inhaled quickly, his eyes widening. He tried his best not to let Sherlock see. _No. Don't leave. Please don't leave._

"Which I neither can nor want to do."

Something heavy left John's chest with these words. He looked up at Sherlock. His smile had turned into a grin. _That bastard_. He had done that on purpose.

"I am taking this as your consent. Get up."

John obeyed. He tried to look annoyed by Sherlock's unfair behaviour, his cheekiness. Again, he was failing spectacularly. It was obvious that he would do anything Sherlock told him. _But Sherlock doesn't need to know, for heaven's sake!_ Hell, it was him who got hurt last time! He should make the rules from now! He balled his fists while walking to the middle of the room, to the exact spot he had been standing before Mrs Hudson had interrupted his waiting. It gave him a bit more self-confidence. A very small bit.

Sherlock put the table away before placing himself about three feet opposite John.

"Come closer."

John obeyed. He felt like a dog. But there was nothing he could do - the expression in Sherlock's face was enough to make the adrenaline rise in him already. He felt his heart speeding up.

"There's only one way how we can proceed with this without putting you at too much of a risk. You have to learn how to react. You have to learn how to fight me."

With the last words the flames found their way into Sherlock's eyes again. It was only a spark. But it was enough to set John on fire, too.

"I will show you a small piece of technique. If you're still in after that, we will see how to proceed. Raise your arm."

John raised his arm, and only one second later he was lying on the ground, on his back, Sherlock sitting on his chest. He smiled, then placed his hands on John's arms to lean on them while raising his body. Within an instant, Sherlock's legs were tangled around John's, suddenly inflicting pain on them. John inhaled sharply through his teeth before Sherlock let go of him. Before John was able to react in any way, Sherlock was already back on his feet, smiling almost narcissistically. Aggression rose in John's stomach and flushed his cheeks. _Okay. Fine then._

He got to his feet and came for Sherlock with strong, determined steps. He had no idea what to do in detail, but he felt the urge to return whatever it was Sherlock had just given him. Sherlock had already turned to him, standing with slightly bent knees, as if awaiting the collision. The smile didn't leave his face.

Their bodies met, and John tried his best to get a grab of Sherlock's arm in order to twist it. He wanted to make him fall. To have him under his control. To have Sherlock inferior to him. _God, that smile._ It made him so aggressive. But it didn't work. For some reason, John couldn't get a proper grab of Sherlock. He tried to reach for the other man's shoulders instead, to make him fall by blocking his legs with his own and pushing him over it, but before he could even touch Sherlock's shoulders his flatmate had already performed the exact same move on him. Once again, John was on his back. But this time he got to his feet before Sherlock could come after him.

What had been a touch of anger was now growing into rage inside John. He wanted to fight him. Wanted to show who the stronger one of them was. Wanted to change that face into an expression of surprise. So he tried again.  But this time, he hit Sherlock with his whole body. They both sighed as they collided, and if Sherlock had switched to undressing, John would have gone along. But not now. Not yet. John pushed Sherlock towards the wall. He grabbed Sherlock's shoulders only before reaching it and pushed him. The taller man hit the wall hard. His face had changed to... excitement?

John tried to focus on his movements instead of Sherlock's face again. He turned around while simultaneously pulling Sherlock by shoulders. Then one hand moved to Sherlock's waist while John took a step to the side and bent his knees, and by leaning forward he managed to pull Sherlock over his hip. Finally, Sherlock hit the floor before John did too, dragged along by Sherlock. John instantly placed himself in the very same position as Sherlock had done before, his hands pushing Sherlock's arms to the ground while tangling his legs around Sherlock's. Then he tightened his legs and only stopped when Sherlock started to scream. He repeated the movement one more time, and it was only when Sherlock tapped the ground with one of his hands that John let go of him completely. He collapsed next to Sherlock.

For a moment, they just lay there, panting. _Jesus_.

John thought about what to say or how to go on, but before he had a chance to Sherlock rolled onto him. He was lying on John, his face so close their noses touched. His mouth moved to John's ear.

"Wow." He whispered, his breath hot against the shell of John's ear, and _Good god, Sherlock..._

Sherlock's nose tenderly stroke John's before Sherlock lifted his upper body and looked at John. There was no name for the expression on his face. Words like wild, fierce or expectant didn’t seem to describe it properly. Not the slightest.

"Wrap your legs around me."

John obeyed once more, and he didn't need Sherlock to say any more but instead tightened instantly. Sherlock fell back on John's chest. He was sighing quietly, his body slowly moving back and forth. John loosened his grasp only to tighten again. Sherlock gasped. His hands started to wander across John's chest, down his waist and up his legs. _God_. Then Sherlock suddenly got to his knees – pulling John with him. He was sitting in Sherlock's lap now, his legs still wrapped around Sherlock's waist.

"Tighten. Do it."

John tightened as hard as he could, and Sherlock gasped breathlessly. For a moment, John was concerned about having seriously hurt Sherlock, but when the other man whispered "Again", he knew he hadn't.

Sherlock's hands wandered across John's back, his shoulders, the back of his head. They mingled with John's hair, and Jesus Christ, that was the most arousing thing John had ever done. Sherlock's forehead was lying on John's shoulder, and when he slightly lifted it John didn't bake away even though he knew what was about to come. Sherlock's lips found John’s neck, and after tenderly leaving two kisses on it – _oh, god_ – he sunk his teeth into it. Soft, hardly painful at first, then with more and more force. He left his bite marks on John's skin. It did hurt. Of course it did. But it made John feel so alive. He enjoyed it. He enjoyed the pain Sherlock was inflicting on him and the way he was inflicting pain on Sherlock - and the way Sherlock was reacting to it. John couldn't help but slightly rock his body into Sherlock's. There it was again - the feeling as if the world had stopped, everything else just washing out of John's perception. They sat there, with their hands wandering across each other's body, exploring, wild, demanding. Hungry.

John had no clue how long they had been sitting there like this. Time was a concept that had left his mind completely. And he didn't care. He could have gone on like this forever. He didn't want to break it, to let go of it. It wasn't as if the heat between them was decreasing - quite the opposite. John felt warmth growing between his legs. And something increasingly hard between Sherlock's, too. Then Sherlock lifted his head from John's shoulder and faced him. He put his forehead on John's.

There was heavy breathing. Their movements slowed down but kept their intensity. Sherlock's hands rested on John's butt and pulled the other man closer towards him. John was surprised that more closeness than already was even possible. He gasped and closed his eyes. _Kiss me. Dear Lord above, please. Please kiss me_.

Sherlock's forehead left John's. He put his hands on John's face. They were hot and sweaty. _Please._

The next moment John felt Sherlock's lips on his cheek, then on his nose.

"Very good."

Sherlock held John's face in his hands and looked at him, a little smile on his face.

"Are you ok?"

John didn't feel capable of speaking. He nodded.

"Come on." Sherlock untangled John's legs and stood up before offering the other man a hand. John took it gratefully, still feeling dizzied by what had just happened. Nevertheless, the adrenaline was slowly replaced by disappointment.

Sherlock poured John a glass of water before getting one himself. Both emptied their glasses in one gulp.

John felt lost. Everything had been so clear only a minute before. Had he done something wrong? Was it too much, too fast? God, what was wrong with him! He suddenly felt like an idiot. He hadn't actively tried to kiss Sherlock. But his behaviour must have indicated that he had wanted to. That was probably why Sherlock had stopped. Because he didn't want John to. His thoughts were interrupted by Sherlock's voice.

"Very good indeed. This was lesson one: fight back. We'll proceed tomorrow with lesson two. That is, if you're still in."

John felt Sherlock lifting his head and looking at him. He wanted John's confirmation. Wanted to make sure that John agreed.

John could have stopped it right there. Two letters, one word, and it would have been over and done. A simple No. And they would have left it like that. It would never have occurred again and they would have gone on as if nothing had ever happened. It had been fine. Sherlock would have accepted it. And John could have saved his heart. Right then. Two letters, one word.

"Yes." He said. "I'm in."

A wide smile appeared in Sherlock's face. "Dinner?"

"Starving."


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John couldn't stop himself from leaning into the touch, Sherlock's soft skin against his. He could smell soap on Sherlock's hand, mingling with his personal scent of expensive shampoo and just Sherlock himself. John closed his eyes, not caring about how this, again, probably looked like to Sherlock. He had stopped caring quite a while ago.

John slept well. He slept tight, and did not wake all night. He dreamt of bodies, complexly interlaced with each other, all limbs and skin. Of breaths, deep ones, sighs and… moans. Of dark curls, tousled from clumsy hands moving through them over and over again. Sweat dripping from foreheads as they meet. Another sharp inhale. And then lips. Lips finding lips, more moans, ecstatic kissing. Hands moving over bodies, clothes suddenly torn apart, removed...

John woke suddenly. The sun was flooding through the window next to him, the usual sounds of a busy Baker Street not loud but a recognisable buzz. The very clear hint of a boner was visible through the duvet. John inhaled deeply, trying to calm his breath. That dream. It felt so real. Far too real, obviously. John was staring down himself at the bulge between his legs. He could go for it, that is. Imagine something nice and do it. Nothing unusual in that. He sighed and reached for the clock on his nightstand.

9am.

It was Monday. He should already be at the clinic. And he had already missed his first two appointments.

He sighed once more. He had missed quite a lot appointments in the last few weeks. Indeed, it felt like he had cancelled more than he had taken. There was always something unexpectedly coming in from Sherlock's side, and he couldn't find a substitute for Sherlock as easily as they could find a substitute at the clinic. He was replaceable there. He knew. They knew. Sure, everyone at the clinic, even the boss, liked him, and he did a good job when he was around, and those were probably the only two reasons he wasn't fired yet. What if they fired him, though? Would he go searching for new employment? Or would he stay with Sherlock fulltime instead, despite the bad conscience living on Mycroft's cost would leave him with?

Those weren't real questions, though. Because he wasn't fired. Not yet. And he knew the answers anyway. There were other things that were more present in his mind. Things that didn't even leave him in his dreams...

He got up, with no rush at all. Sherlock had already called the clinic and reported John sick. He always did. Even when John himself didn't even know about it already.

He didn't really know how to feel. Yesterday... There were no words to describe how it had felt. He was still feeling it in his bones. His body was filled with a strange mix made of desire, anger, adrenaline, something that felt like fire and... fear. Fear of getting hurt in the process, apart from physical pain. John knew it was a possibility. He knew that Sherlock would not be considerate of his feelings - how could he, without knowing they even existed. John swallowed. Maybe he could ignore it. Maybe it would go away if he just ignored it for long enough. Maybe that little monster called fear and doubt would leave the back of his head and vanish if he just tried hard enough. He found his dressing gown and went to the door.

The familiar rattling of Sherlock being busy with an experiment was hearable from downstairs. John heard Sherlock mumbling, then throwing away something. Whatever it was, it landed on the floor with a crashing sound. Then there was Sherlock's voice again, annoyed this time. John heard a chair being pushed back and steps on the floor, and then...

"Ouch! Goddamnit! _Putain de merde_!"

John couldn't hold back a short, a bit too relieved laugh. He shook his head. That idiot. _That stupid, stubborn, absolutely loveable idiot_.

When he entered the kitchen, Sherlock was gambolling through the kitchen on one leg, attempting to reach the sink. He had stepped into what was left of the sample he had just dropped, one shard still sticking in his - naturally - bare foot.

"You know, that's what slippers were invented for. Because some pal someday stepped into a shard and was finally sick of it."

Sherlock mumbled something that certainly wasn't an utterance of appreciation of John's excellent humour, then he reached for the box of tissues placed near the sink. Blood was streaming down his foot and dripping on the floor. The wound didn't seem to be deep, but that didn't mean it wouldn't bleed as hell.

"Let me have a look at this."

John disappeared to get the first aid kit from the bathroom. He passed two mirrors on his way, each of them reflecting him smiling. He shook his head. It was just such a... Sherlock-thing to happen. He always appeared so confident, as if every single one of his movements was predetermined. And then this kind of thing happened, and it was so... human. John's smile widened by the very thought of it. He was standing at the bathroom sink when he suddenly remembered.

He turned his back to the mirror and slowly pulled at his dressing gown, exposing a bit of his neck as the result. There was a huge round black spot, its colour a mixture of dark purple and greenish stuff, clear marks of teeth in it. It was visibly swollen, which was probably obvious even through the fabric. But... He took off his dressing gown and stepped away from the sink.

There were tiny traces all over his torso. The huge bite mark he had inspected before was accompanied by two more of the same kind, one being even more swollen. There were some black spots on his upper arms where Sherlock had grabbed him and a little graze on his left elbow, probably caused by the friction their movements on the carpet had caused. There were also some marks on his legs, his left knee was slightly swollen. He must had hit it on the ground when Sherlock had caused him to fall. There was a huge black spot on his shin, too. He turned and slightly pulled at his pants. Yes. There were some black spots on his butt, too. And these couldn't possibly have resulted from him hitting the floor. Actually, John was sure that some of them had the exact size of Sherlock's fingertips...

It wasn't that bad, though. John didn't look as if he had almost been punched to death, but... How could he not have noticed? At least the bite marks on his back definitely did hurt, now that he thought of it, his neck felt stiff. And still he hadn't realised it until just now, as if his brain had still been occupied with thinking about the thing itself and hadn't moved on to its aftermath yet. He inhaled deeply. _Jesus._

"John? I've run out of tissues."

Sherlock's voice interrupted John's thoughts, and for a moment he couldn't even remember why he had gone to the bathroom in the first place. Then he spotted the first aid kit underneath the sink, grabbed it and returned to the kitchen, where Sherlock had sat down on one of the chairs, the bleeding foot resting on his knee and tissues spread everywhere around him. John knelt down in front of Sherlock and disinfected the wound, then he wrapped a padding and several layers of bondage to keep it in place around it. He looked up when he finished, expecting Sherlock to look more than slightly annoyed because of the 'unnecessary' attention his foot was receiving. But that wasn't the case.

Sherlock looked down on him with a mixture of affection and concern, his eyes slightly narrowed and his lips pressed together. Their eyes met, and neither of them looked away for what felt like minutes. Then, finally, Sherlock blinked a couple of times and opened his mouth, only to close it again. His eyes narrowed a bit more. John bent his head a bit to one side. He often wished to have a look into Sherlock's head, read his thoughts as easily as the younger man read his, see what he saw. But he had never wished for it as much as he did now. Too many questions were racing through John's head, and he had no idea which to ask first. Or whether he should ask them at all. He hadn't even had the chance to think about it properly when Sherlock's hand suddenly found his cheek.

"Are you alright?"

John couldn't stop himself from leaning into the touch, Sherlock's soft skin against his. He could smell soap on Sherlock's hand, mingling with his personal scent of expensive shampoo and just _Sherlock_ himself. John closed his eyes, not caring about how this, again, probably looked like to Sherlock. He had stopped caring quite a while ago. It was as if Sherlock's mere presence was pulling John towards him, and as soon as they touched, John was unable to bake away. It felt as if no extent of closeness between them could ever be too much. When Sherlock touched him his body was pulled into the touch, and they became one. The one and only thing that mattered. John nodded.

"Let me see your back."

Sherlock's hand left John's cheek and he felt the loss immediately, graving it back, but he obeyed and turned. Sherlock plugged at his dressing gown and he loosened it slightly, enough for Sherlock to pull it down so the bite marks were exposed. John could hear him inhale and from the corner of his eye he saw him shaking his head, but Sherlock kept him in place when he wanted to turn around. He reached for the first aid kit and grabbed one of the tubes. A moment later cool ointment dripped on John's skin, then Sherlock's hands followed. John held his breath, and when Sherlock started to move his hands across John's neck, he exhaled bit by bit. He could feel his shoulders relax slightly. Sherlock was slowly massaging the ointment into John's skin, making sure to include any muscle that could be affected by the strain caused by the bites. His hands moved all over John's back, across his shoulders and up his neck to his hairline. The touch felt soft, warm and proficient, and John had to supress a moan. There he was, sitting on the floor between his flatmate's legs, absently stroking Sherlock's calves, softly, as if his body was performing the action all by itself. He couldn't keep himself from going with the movement of Sherlock's hands, leaning forward whenever he was stroking his back and leaning back into Sherlock's hands when they found his neck again. Sherlock's hands moved to John's shoulders, massaging both simultaneously, and John leaned back so far his head was finally resting on Sherlock's thigh. Sherlock's hands moved onto John's chest, only for a bit at first, then more and more. Soon, Sherlock was stroking the area from John's shoulder blades to the mid of his chest, and _dear Lord_ , this felt so good... John closed his eyes. Please. _Please._

The ointment had certainly been gone for a couple of minutes already when Sherlock finally stopped and a silent whine left John's mouth. This could have gone on forever if he had been to decide. Sherlock pulled John's dressing gown back to his shoulders and got up. He stepped in front of John and offered him a hand, which John gratefully took, his head still dizzy from the massage he had just received. When he stood, Sherlock suddenly pulled him close, his arms around John's body.

"I'm sorry." Sherlock closed his eyes and put his forehead against John's.

"Don't be." There was nothing more John could have said. Yes, it did hurt. But this, this right here, was worth every pain in the world.

"Oh, yes. I am, and I should be." His voice sounded bitter. There was a long pause. Then Sherlock exhaled. "Do you want breakfast?" John nodded, and their bodies parted. John sat down on the chair Sherlock had sat on before, and then he watched his flatmate setting the kettle and switching on the stove, a strange feeling of domesticity rising inside him. John didn't mind. It could be like this. Everyday. Forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello and thanks to everyone who's still here! I know, it's been a while... I've been quite busy and didn't want to upload anything halfhearted. I'm going to beta this whole story soonish, especially the first chapters (which I'm terribly discontented with by now, to be quite honest), but this might take a while. I'm grateful for any input concerning this story and I'll try my best to be back soon. Lots of love, C


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